Description: As the tide of dark stalkers washes over the city, it isn't only the innocent citizens of Southtown that find themselves under siege. Even the seedy criminal underbelly is quickly beset by countless monstrosities who seem to care little for politics or class distinction in their indiscriminate rampage. As the head of his own little group, Alba is forced to take the field in order to defend his territory lest it be overrun. However, when he arrives to do battle with the foe, he soon discovers that not all is as it seems.

[ALBA]Below the overpass and sprawling mass of cars, sits a obscure and broken-down old laundry shop now home to nothing but mice and dirt. Sitting right in the middle of the shopping district under the overpass. But within the shop sits the entrance to a large basement. Perhaps formerly used for shady business- like money laundering. Complete with a secret get-away entrance and exit. In other words, a perfect hideout for a small gang.

Alba approaches a secluded concrete corner within the enbankments, right next to the canal under the overpass, and gives the smooth grey wall a solid -Shove-. The stone shifts and reveals a tight, damp tunnel heading further in. He put the stone back in it's place and paced down the tunnel with a swift tempo before finally reaching their hideout.

A single, large concrete basement with a handful of wooden chairs and tables scattered around. A ladder that goes up to the wreckage of the laundry shop can be found in one of the corners, hidden under a trap-door. Alba's gang of carefully-selected misfits within. They're keeping themselves entertainment with bouts of blackjack and bottles of beer. A few look up and nod towards Alba with a greeting, others pay him no mind. He sits down in one of the more secluded chairs and gathers his thoughts. Rumors and reports are spreading around Southtown at a rapid pace. The city is apparently under attack by a group of ravenous beasts. What is even the best approach? Sit it out? Take the fight to them?

Alba's brow furrows as he considers the best strategy.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Despite it's seclusion beneath the old laundromat, a constant din of background noise filters into the small gang's underground retreat from the world above. The steady thrum of car engines intermingles with the creaking groans of the old overpass, broken up by the occasional blare of an angry horn or the high-pitched whine of one of the city's many subway cars zipping past nearby. It's not an unpleasant sound, resembling the rattling patter of raindrops upon an old metal rooftop, the noise soothing and familiar to those who have spent their lives surrounded by such things.

The noises offer their comfort to the young gang leader like an old companion as he takes his seat and falls into quiet contemplation. The reports that have been getting passed around do not paint a pretty picture. The arrival of the Dark Stalkers into Earthrealm had always been a matter of great concern for the majority of the world. Literal monsters and demons in the flesh, striding out of an alternate dimension like fairy tales stepping out of the pages of their books. Some had reacted in fear, while others called for co-existence. Thus far, neither side has been proven the fool. Dark Stalkers seem almost as varied as mankind itself, their ranks filled with creatures capable of compassion and mercy as well as those equally inclined towards violence and mayhem. At the moment, it would seem that the latter have chosen to step to the fore.

Several minutes pass in relative silence, the soft chatter of the gangsters mixing with the noise from above leaving Alba to his own thoughts. It isn't until he notices several of his own men glancing up at the ceiling with puzzled looks that the change he had failed to notice, mired as he was in his own thoughts, becomes obvious. The talking in the room dies down and it quickly becomes all the more apparent that the noise from the streets above has ceased. Silence lingers for several seconds, leaving the ears of everyone ringing faintly with its oppressive totality.

And then someone starts to scream.

Nestled deep in their bunker, the cry is strangely muted, as if a thoughtless neighbor had left their television on in the middle of the night. But even distorted by meters of concrete and dirt the utter panic behind the sound is impossible to mistake. A few seconds later the scream dies out, almost as abruptly as it started, dying out with a strangled gurgle. Silence reigns again for a few crushing heartbeats and then more terrified shouts echo the first, quickly rising up into an outpouring of sheer terror.

As if some predetermined signal had been given, all hell seems to break loose at once. Car horns blare wildly in rapid succession like a herd of startled beasts letting out a braying cry of warning. The dull thud of several heavy crunching impacts along with the sound of breaking glass joins the cacophany joined quickly by the shrill chirps of car alarms blaring their own keening warbles into the churning maelstrom of noise. Behind it all the panicked screams from both men and women rise up in discordant unison, the sound of utter chaos drifting lazily down into the small bunker.

[ALBA]Alba didn't get much time to think.

Chaos broke out. Screams of terror. Alba stands up and looks over his group. All capable fighters of varying backgrounds, just over 20 men and women strong. Some found him on his own, others, he picked up from the streets. He yells one simple instruction "Protect the civillians!". He rushes towards his ladder, the majority of his group follows suit. Some hesitate and stay where they are. Others? They betray his trust and scurry over towards the secret exit. Cowards.

Upon pushing open the trap door and stepping into the abandoned shop, the sounds become ever-louder. A maddening combination of screams, objects being destroyed, alarm signals going off. They run off towards the front-door, old wood creaking beneath their feet, and slam open the door. Revealing the street in front.

[KIRA VOLKOV]The scene that greets the young gangster is one of pure chaos. Dozens of people run screaming in mindless panic, all of the flocking like a giant herd of frightened animals in the same direction in an attempt to escape and avoid being trampled in the stampede. An equally numerous amount of cars lie strewn across the road. Some are simply abandoned, left running with doors hanging ajar as their drivers fled. Others sit in crumpled heaps, tangled messes of fiber-glass and cheap aluminum wrap around each other or flattened against the towering concrete pillars supporting the overpass.

The source of their fear isn't hard to find. All around the street large dark shapes tear into the fleeing masses with gleeful abandon, claws and teeth ripping and tearing at everything in a wild frenzy of gore. Every couple of seconds a fountain of blood erupts skywards like a geyser as another one of the shaggy creatures swipes a massive hand or latches its dagger-like teeth down onto a hapless civilian. It would almost looks like bad special effects in a particularly tasteless movie were it not unfolding right in front of him.

Alba and his men don't get much time to take in the severity of the devastation. From somewhere nearby, fresh screams of terror scythe through the cacophany, amplified by their proximity. It only takes a moment to realize that the screams are coming from around the corner where the secret exit from his hideout opens up onto the street. As before, the shout suddenly turns into a wet strangled gurgling sound after only a couple of seconds before fading away into the chaos.

"Nrrrrgh..."

A rumbling growl not unlike that of raw gravel being churned in a bucket drifts out to engulf the small band of hoodlums from behind, grinding against their ears. From inside the shop, a large figure detaches itself from a shadowed corner, it's presence completely unnoticed in their scramble to rush outside. Standing nearly eight feet tall, the creature is a mass of filthy black fur and dried blood, its shape vaguely resembling that of a human. Twin yellow eyes filled with almost palpable malice peer down at the gaggle of gangsters over a long narrow snout, its lips peeled back to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. Its wolf-like head rests atop a body that would look far more appropriate on a roided out gorilla, heavy muscles bulging around its slightly stooped frame like a suit of armor. A long cloak of some mottled red fabric hangs loosely from its shoulders, covered in patches of some foul dried black substance. About its torso, a large leather bandolier is wrapped tightly against its shaggy fur and from that hangs a holster containing a frightenly large sawed off shotgun.

"Fools," the massive werewolf rumbles, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. "Didn't anyone teach them that to show weakness to a predator is to invite death?"

A dark chuckle escapes his snout and it becomes obvious that the show of teeth is meant to be a smile rather than a snarl, though this makes it no less appealing to see. A horrid stench akin to rotten eggs mixed with wet fur accompanies the beast as he strides forward several steps, coming to a halt about five feet away from the group. He slumps into a lazy crouch, his body language showing a lack of concern, but his eyes are narrow and focused.

"Nnnnrgh... you lot, at least, have some spine, though your awareness is sorely lacking. Fortunately for you, I have not come here to hunt you. Not yet, at least."

The wolf's lips peel back to display yet more of his pointed teeth in a grisly grin, revealing several fresh bloodstains on their surface. After a moment of indulging his macabre sense of humor, the smile vanishes and he sweeps his predatory gaze across the assembled youths until his eyes settle on Alba.

"Nnnrrgh... you. You are the leader of this..."

The werewolf's lips peel back again, this time in a sneer that is mirrored in his tone as he emphasizes the final word with heavy contempt.

"Pack?"

Fenrir falls asleep.

Fenrir wakes up.

Fenrir falls asleep.

Fenrir wakes up.

[ALBA]Alba's gang, eager to fight as they may be, are not prepared for the scale of bloodshed. They stand their ground, but small twitches give away their fear and uncertainty. The big black wolf looks like something you'd find in a horror movie. But this is the reality. Alba turns around to look both at his group and Fenrir, saying loudly above the chaos "Patrol the area moving in groups of 4. Protect civillians but don't take fights you can't win." He turns his head to peer straight into those yellow eyes.

"I'll take care of this Furball."

His members quickly scatter in different directions, if Fenrir will let them. "I hope that answered your question." Alba says. He has to hurry, in a situation like this the amount of time spend on everything is dire. The ferocious darkstalker horde won't take a break, so neither can they. The more time he spends fighting Fenrir, the less time he has to make an impact elsewhere in the city. As such, he doesn't waste a moment, dashing back into the laundry shop and straight at this monster, ready to strike.

COMBATSYS: Alba has started a fight here on the left meter side.
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Alba 0/-------/------=|

[KIRA VOLKOV]The massive wolf's eyes narrow slightly at the insult but he makes no efforts to intercept the small gang as they split up and scatter in various directions, moving to try and curtail some of the carnage. The sheer scale of the attack makes even attempting to get close to the danger zone a matter of difficulty, however. The surge of bodies attempting to flee from the deadly beasts is almost like a tidal wave in its density and momentum, flowing rapidly and insistently around the scattered vehicles that litter the road.

Fenrir remains stationary, his bright yellow eyes focused on the leader as he moves in a sudden surge meant to close the distance between them. His hunched up body tenses slightly, muscles rippling visibly beneath his charcoal pelt as he turns to the side, sweeping one large digitigrade leg out to his rear for balance. One over-sized hand goes to rest on the butt of his sawed-off shotgun, fingers coiling around the smooth wooden pistol grip as if caressing it.

"Will you now?"

Amusement and contempt drip from the question in equal measure. Fenrir's lips peel back into a feral grin as he stares down at the young gangster, his expression one of eager barely controlled hunger. Then with a quick step backwards, he slips back into the shadows of the lightless building, allowing them to wrap him up like a cloak. For a few moments his eyes and teeth remain visible, shimmering like the manic grin of a Cheshire Cat, a demon of rage and murder come to reap it toll upon the living.

As the creature fades into the darkness of the building's interior, another of his deep grating chuckles spills forth, seeming to echo from everywhere at once in the large empty room.

"If you are so eager to prove yourself," Fenrir snarls, his voice low and dangerous, "then step into my parlour, little fly."

[ALBA]"Tch" the beast has hidden himself. Alba can do naught but step further into the building and prepare himself for the assault. "Hiding, are we?" He says, with a neutral face and tone. Alba surges chi through his body and takes a combat stance, the sleeves of his red-leather jacket making a slight creaking sound. His body glows a faint white-blue as he energizes himself. He waits. Listening and watching intently, letting his vision get used to the darkness and his mind ready for a life-threathening fight.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Despite the creature's size, the werewolf is completely silent, his movements cloaked by the shadows. A born predator of the like that the Earthrealm has not seen for nearly a thousand years, he enjoys a smug smirk as he slinks slowly backwards, his heavily padded feet and dark black fur rendering him nigh invisible to the pathetic undeveloped senses of the young human. His skills at survival and killing were honed in a world of literal monsters while men hid in their concrete jungles growing fat and lazy in the safety of their walls.

"What's the matter, little manling?"

Though he could easily take this little whelp and tear him apart before he even realized where the strike was coming from, he has other things in mind. Perhaps he'll toy with the upstart a little, show him precisely where in the food chain he falls. His voice remains low and gruff as he growls out a taunt, the sound bouncing off the walls in a confusing manner even as he shifts his position to flank his prey.

"Does your ability to 'take care of me' only extend to bright areas?"

Fenrir waits a few moments after reaching his desired position, watching the gangster until his attention is diverted elsewhere in his attempt to suss out the location of his foe. The strike comes at that precise moment. The massive wolf's black body emerges from the darkness at Alba's left side, silent and swift. One of his monstrous clawed hands rakes out, his palm so large that it looks like it might be able to engulf his entire torso. Should he wish to, he could likely crush the foolish human's ribcage with a single blow, but there's no fun in that. Instead he draws up short, scything the tips of his deadly claws so that they only just barely slice at the surface of Alba's jacket, leaving painful but shallow wounds should they manage to connect.

[ALBA]The darkness and his hidden opponent make for a frightening combination. His eyes have not adjusted yet, there is no light from outside. And the claw? He sees it coming far too late. The claw shreds through his jacket, and into the upper layers of his skin and muscle of his left arm. Blood splatters on his clothing and onto the ground. Still, Alba forces himself to retaliate. He can't let him slip back into the shadows.

Alba spreads out his arms opposed to eachother, diagonally up and down from his torso. The wound on his left arm stretches out painfully, the blood seeping down his arm as he puts it up. And then, he brings his arms together before repeating the same motion two more times. And with each crossing, a large, crescent blade of Chi shoots out towards the big bad wolf. 3 crossings. 3 blades.

This situation is dire. Why did he follow him in here? Alba prides himself on his strategum and wit, but now, he dove right into a trap.

[KIRA VOLKOV]The werewolf's lips peel back in sadistic glee as he feels his claws tear into the unprotected flesh of his prey's arm, dark feral instincts trilling with delight at the scent of fresh blood. Like most young fools, the man's pride had made him run head-first into an unfavorable situation and he was paying the price for that blind hubris now. The injury wasn't enough to disable him or even take out the use of his arm but the stinging pain of the wound would be a distraction and a reminder of how easily the creature could have taken off his arm.

Fenrir's grin doesn't falter as the barrage of retalitory strikes hammers into him, glimmering waves of spiritual energy breaking apart upon the surface of his meaty forearm. The impacts send ripples of pain through his senses but he pays them little mind. Pain and he are old aquantainces and it will take much worse than this to faze the old wolf.

The onslaught does force him to hold his ground for a few moments rather than retreat into the shadows once more, which he finds mildly irritating. Rather than voice his displeasure with another taunt, the giant wolf's free hand goes to the grip of his shotgun. With a single motion he whips it out, flicking his wrist with the skill and speed of a gunslinger, and pulls the triggers. An ear-splitting roar of light and sound explodes from both barrels of the large gun, its stub-nosed tip erupting in twin plumes of fire and smoke. A cloud of tiny projectiles flies towards the gangster, filling the space that he currently occupies with a hundred tiny glittering crystals the size of erasers. A sharp sting of something familiar fills his nostrils, making his eyes water slightly and it takes only a heartbeat to identify the source - salt.

Rather than fill the human with flesh-shredding lead shot, the shells instead are loaded with densely packed rock salt. Pouring salt into a wound has never been more apt of a phrase. It just cuts out the middleman in the process. Not nearly as deadly, unless someone happens to catch a blast in the face, but infinitely more painful.

[ALBA]His meaty claw moves towards the shotgun. Alba percieves this and scouts the nearby area. A simple roll won't do to evade something that broad. The room is mostly empty, but remnants of people that lived here can still be found, scattered around. Including a small, but thick, round table. He rolls across the floor, painfully opening up his wound in the process, and uses both hands to grab the table's legs, tilting it upwards and in front of him as he crouches behind it for cover. A loud *bang* and flash of light fills the room. And the salt harmlessly bounce of the dark wood. Thankfully it wasn't filled with -real- bullets. "Nice try, furball." He taunts Fenrir, hoping to make him angry and predictable.

The Gangster tosses the table to the side and rushes towards the dirty mass of black fur. He is going in with simple hand-to-hand combat, choosing to reserve his energy. He raises up his right arm, left of his head, and jumps- doing a aggressive downwards chop aimed the wolf's neck.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Fenrir's eyes narrow as he shields his vision against the flash but they continue to track his prey as the human makes a desperate lunge behind cover, avoiding the stinging lash of his shot. A low growl rumbles in his throat at that. He had wanted to thoroughly enjoy the inevitable cries of pain as the salt burrowed into soft flesh. It was a trick that had been shown to him by his master. She had intended that knowledge to be used so that he might disable someone who she wished to be captured. Instead, the sheer suffering that it inflicted had made it one of his favorite tactics in general.

"Nnnrgh. Your insults are as weak as the rest of you, manling!"

As if to prove his point, the massive wolf makes no attempt to avoid the obvious and overly dramatic leaping strike as Alba lunges out from behind his temporarly cover. The axe-handed chop comes down with a dull thud, impacting on the thick corded muscles around the hulking beast's neck, but as before he barely even seems to register the damage being inflicted on his flesh save for a low momentary grunt.

Alba finds himself in the unenviable position of being suspended in midair in front of a very large and very annoyed monster. A monster that has a great many sharp claws and teeth, a fact which he reminds the brazen youth of when his long snout opens wide and those dagger-like fangs snap down like a bear trap. The preferred target is the already injured shoulder but Fenrir isn't particularly picky - anything foolish enough to be thrust up to defend against him will make just as suitable of a chew toy.

[ALBA]A unfavorable position indeed. In the air, no solid footing to jump away from. In a desperate attempt to keep those fangs away from him, he tries to move his hands to prevent the maws from snapping shut, but the force behind the jaws are too great, and the fangs painfully dig into both of his forearms. Then, he gets thrashed around. Indeed- like a chew toy. Swung around by the arms as the fangs dig further and further into his flesh, blood seeping into Fenrir's mouth. Until finally, he is released with a swing of the wolf's head, crashing Alba into the wall nearby.

Alba is now slumped- sitting against the wall, the forearms bleeding profusely on the splintered wooden floor, colorizing it to a dirty red-brown. The young leader pushes himself off the ground, using just his legs. The strain on his arms is already great enough. Alba taps from his reserves and newfound power surges through his body. Giving him enough energy to keep on fighting. He strains his chewed-up arms into a fighting position, and bursts back at the wolf. Lifting his right leg up for a careful side-kick towards the Fenrir's knees.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Sacrificing his arms in a desperate bid to protect his body. Stupid but predictable. Unfortunately for the gangster, the flesh of his limbs isn't any less bite-proof than his shoulder and he gets shaken around like a rag doll for a couple of seconds, the massive wolf seeming to take unusual pleasure in each flick of his head as the teeth rip and tear. When he finally flings the young man aside, Fenrir turns to grin at him, his mottled snout stained with fresh blood.

"Is that all you have, manling?"

As it turns out, that isn't all he has. The wolf takes a quick step backwards, attempting to hop out of the way as Alba pushes to his feet and delivers a low kick at the side of his knee. He proves to be a little too slow. The toe of the hoodlum's boot slams into the joint with another dull thud and this time the towering beast lets out an involuntary snarl of pain as the knee twists sideways for a moment.

Pure anger flashes across the beast's inhuman face and for a moment his vision goes red with murderous hate and killing intent. He very nearly hurls himself atop the youth, tearing and ripping and biting, but at the last moment he pulls away with a frustrated snarl. No, he can't kill this one. Not yet.

But that doesn't mean he has to be gentle with the little bastard. Taking a deep breath, he channels that blinding fury deep into his core, letting it build up to a critical mass before unleashing it in a bone-rattling howl. The aural assault slams into the room like a physical force, a mixture of noise and twisted spiritual energy hammering the few dusty old pieces of furniture left in the store into the walls like pieces of flotsam.

[ALBA]Alba crouches down and takes a tight guard against the sound and energy. He feels the force pushing him back, and he doesn't resist it. He just mitigates the impact, so that the potential hurl it might have caused is replaced by a slow shuffle backwards. Although, his arms got further strained by the impact. His ears are filled by a ringing sound. He might've avoided most of the potential damage, but it still had an impact. His pained expression betrays this disadvantage.

He cannot afford to stop his assault, and lurches towards the wolf once again, his wounds splattering the floor with bloods. Alba grabs Fenrir's furry forearm with both hands, and hooks his foot behind one of large legs, trying to pull it off-balance. As he does so, he makes use of the unbalanced position to -pull- both arms sidewards, hopefully tossing the beast to the ground.

[KIRA VOLKOV]The towering wolf glowers down at the young fighter, tiny ropes of drool slavering down from his mouth from the effort of his incredible howl. He doesn't bother to wipe them away, if he even notices them at all, instead focusing on trying to stay squared off with the pesky human in order to keep from being put into a disadvantageous position.

When Alba goes to grab his arm, Fenrir offers no resistance to the sudden twist that yanks him sideways. The introduction of the human's foot into his legs makes the fall a little awkward but he manages to roll with the throw, hitting the ground with a hard thump that earns another begrudging grunt of transient pain from the furry beast. Fighting without being allowed to kill his target is proving to be a great deal more annoying than he anticipated. But orders are orders and the last thing he wants to do is get on the Dragon's bad side.

Converting the momentum of his sideways tumble into an offensive maneuver takes a bit of work. Martial grappling isn't one of his strong suits, most things are either too afraid to get close enough to try wrestling with him or too dead to try anything. Now, ripping and tearing with wild abandon with his powerful claws? That he can do.

"You'll find sleeves rather pointless without arms, manling! Rawwwr!"

Snarling in response to the gangster's boast, Fenrir's almost ape-like arms lash out in furious retort. Twin sets of filthy curved claws shred everything they can touch, tearing into floor, into the walls, into flesh. He no longer cares about whether or not the wound goes deeper than mere flesh. His orders never said he needed to bring the brat back in one piece.

[ALBA]Alba moved with confidence- but he didn't take into account the bleeding wounds in his arm. He attempted to intercept the first arm that came his way, use that momentum to bring the beast down. But he failed. Terribly so. The claws rake through his flesh, with every swing, a spurt of blood is released. By the end of it, Alba is very literally torn up. There are few places where he isn't bleeding, but by some miracle his vital organs where mostly intact. He falls to one knee, panting heavily, his sunglasses got busted, and fall onto the ground. Revealing Alba's grey eyes.

The gangster feels weak- sapped, and doesn't find the energy to get back on his feet. He can only desperatly attempt to defend himself as the Massive werewolf stands over him. Claws drenched in Alba's blood, dripping to the ground. Slowly.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Rip and tear, slash and bite. Fenrir's feral nature bubbles up to the surface as he mauls the unfortunate gangster with reckless abandon, allowing himself a moment of indulgence in retalation for the pain inflicted upon him by the stubborn fool. He hadn't even been planning on fighting the boy - his job had merely been to deliver a message - but no upstart young punk gets to challenge him so openly without being taught a lesson. That lesson was now carved into Alba's body in bloody red streaks. Though the wild slashes and ragged teeth marks might be difficult to make out underneath the quickly expanding sheet of blood, their message is easy enough to decipher.

Don't fuck with the big bad wolf.

The lesson now having been doled out, Fenrir rolls back onto his feet, rising to his full height with an annoyed growl. He turns to face the wounded man, lips peeling away from deadly teeth in a glower, but does not immediately move to strike. Instead, he draws the obscenely large gun from its holster and cracks the breach, ejecting a pair of shells the size of aspirin bottles from the back end. Two fresh cartridges are pulled from the bandolier and inserted into the chambers with practiced motions. With a snap of his wrist, the weapon clicks closed, and his gaze shifts down to Alba once more.

"If you are quite finished attempting to prove yourself, human, there is something that I wish to..." He trails off, his lips twisting up as if the word has a foul taste in his mouth. "Discuss... with you."

Lazily, he lifts the shotgun and points the business end at the kneeling man. Up close and in the dim light the barrels look disturbingly large, as if he's staring down the tubes of a pair of bazookas. From that distance and in his condition it would be nearly impossible to miss. Fenrir quirks an eyebrow at him, his head tilting slightly to the side as he fans the hammers back on the shotgun with a slow shift of his massive thumb.

"Unless, of course, you'd like to continue until I have torn you into a bloody pulp and drag what is left of you back to my master so that they may interrogate you at their leisure?"

[ALBA]"Shooting that will probably kill me, you know?" He smirks at the wolf through his bloodied face "Not sure if your "boss" would like that." From his postion, he is supporting himself with his right arm, positioned behind him. -Hopefully- unbenkonwst to the beast, he is building up chi in that right fist. "How sad. A ferocious beast like you reduced to a pawn. A lap-dog." The gangster chuckles. Poking the beast with his taunts while hopefully buying himself some time. He is not planning on submitting or surrendering while Southtown is being destroyed.

And with that thought, that resolve, he finally lashes out after having prepared his strike. Putting up his left arm to *bash* the shotgun to the side, hopefully knocking it out of his hand, or at the very least to throw off his aim. Alba simultaneously does a straight punch with his chi-infused hand as he releases the stored-up energy, creating a whirling mass of wind-like chi, aimed straight at the belly of the beast.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Clearly, not expecting such a vigorous counter strike from what should have been a broken foe, Fenrir's eyes widen in momentary disbelief as the gangster lunges up at him with incredible speed. The gun roars as it is swatted aside, its payload of painful crystals scattering and ricocheting off the old tile floor. The sheer sound of the blast at such close range is likely unpleasant but it's certainly better than getting a chest full of rock salt.

The werewolf attempts to shield himself against the unexpected strike but he simply isn't fast enough to react in time. The energy-laden fist slams into his midsection, stopping cold on the heavily muscled abdomen. The eruption of spiritual energy fares much better. A blast of condensed wind blasts into Fenrir's gut and he lets out a pained wheeze as the air is hammered from his lungs. The impact sends him flying backwards several feet, crashing down atop one of the tables that had been previously tossed about before.

A strained gasp rises up from the monster's mouth as he gulps in a deep inhalation of fresh air, momentarily stunned. It doesn't last long. The low choking breaths quickly turn into a rumbling growl that seems to shake the very walls with its vehemence. With a kick of his feet, Fenrir flips himself into the air, landing in a three-point crouch like a football center preparing to square off with the defensive line. Rippling snarls escape from between his clenched teeth, purring like a chainsaw slowly being revved up. Raw seething hatred boils behind his stained yellow eyes, both of which are now open wide, pupils narrowed into tiny dots of killing intent focused on his prey.

"SO BE IT!"

The furious bellow is almost an attack itself, the wolf's gravely voice barking out his malice on a decibel level that knocks a few clumps of old drywall off the ceiling. Dropping to all fours, Fenrir rushes forward like a wild beast, hurling himself towards the arrogant human like a furry ballistic missile. Once more claws lash out, joined this time by teeth, and elbows and knuckles and knees and whatever else the creature can find to strike at the boy with in a deadly frenzy of destruction and blood.

[ALBA]He got a hit in. A real one. The results of his handiwork are obvious from Fenrir's reaction, that strike hurt. Significantly so. "You really are nothing more then a dumb mutt huh? Falling for a trick like that." He smirks, but he realizes that he's in danger. The wolf will keep attacking, and he needs to keep surviving. He stands up, and does a 'come at me' motion with a outstretched arm

"Come, doggie. Walkies."

Fenrir pounces towards him with a barrage of attacks. Elbows, claws, teeth all coming his way. Alba starts quickly moving backwards, and bolsters his defenses by infusing Chi within his limbs, top priority is keeping the sharp parts far enough away from his organs while dampening the blunt-force impacts with his upper body. He is mostly successful in his attempts, and is left just with surface-level scratches and painful bruises from the strikes that did manage to slip through.

Chi erupts from his body like a geyser. It's the same pattern. He gathers energy again from who-knows where. And as he feels it move through his body, it seems to dampen both the pain and fatigue. And with that, he does a familiair motion. The same one he did at the start of the bout. Arms spread, arms cross, crescent blade. Only this time, he only fires twice. The blades hopefully being able to create some distance. Press his current advantage futher.

Fenrir doesn't bother offering any further verbal jousting. He's finished talking. If this arrogant little whelp wants to believe his cheap sucker punch is some sort of clever ruse when the old wolf had him dead to rights, that's his delusion to cope with. Were it not for his orders to leave the boy alive, he'd be little more than wet stain on the floor right now. Considering how angry he's made the werewolf, that remains a distinct possibility.

Through the red haze of his berserker fury, Fenrir manages to maintain enough awareness to realize that his barrage of attacks has been mostly fended off. The thug is resilient, he'll give him that much. Wounded, bleeding from a dozen deep cuts, yet still calm enough to remain in control in the face of a monster nearly twice his size. Perhaps there is some merit to his master's desire to recruit the lad to her purposes. But the boy has not triumped yet and overconfidence has been the downfall of many of his prey.

Feigning continued fury, Fenrir flails savagely at the gangster, leaving obvious openings in his defense that would not exist were he in control of himself. A risk, but a calculated one. He doubts this young pup has the skill to properly exploit the momentary gaps and the display of feral violence will likely convince him that his mewling taunts have had much greater effect than they had. As if being compared to a dog were something witty and clever. Hmph.

The werewolf keeps up his assault until he spots what he was looking for as the boy channels his spiritual energies. Unsubtle, obvious, predictable. He seeks to create space between them so that he might regain his footing and put his attacker on the defensive. Unfortunately for the gangster, he has already revealed this particular trick and it takes little effort for the clever predator to shift his momentum at the last moment, diverting another 'wild' lunge into a sideways roll. The twin crescents of energy rip past him in a flash of light, tearing streaks of illumination through the darkness that glitter on his triumphant toothy grin.

Fenrir lets loose a deep bellowing roar, a predatory howl meant to bypass the conscious thoughts and strike directly at the primitive core of his prey's mind, triggering age old animal instincts of terror. Landing from his roll, the muscles in his legs bunch up, gathering the power to hurl him bodily into the human. Abandoning any pretense of defending himself, the old wolf extends his claws as he flies forward, intent on tackling Alba to the ground and finishing this farce of a showdown.

[ALBA]Alba is way in over his head, he thought he was doing well. A hope of winning. On that adrenaline-fueled high, everything seemed to slow down. A burst of alertness and clarity. But in this clarity, he still made a poor decision.

Fenrir crashed towards him, claws outstreched, ready for a full-body slam. But what, what if he kept standing? Got hit, but didn't fall? Wouldn't that put him in a prime position to hit back? The gangster crouched to the ground and braced himself for impact as the wolf -smashed- into him, the mass far too great to even hope to prevent falling down.

Razor-sharp claws dug into his shoulders, into his wounds. Alba cried out in pain as he was seized, pushed on his back with the beast looming over him. The massive weight of Fenrir crumbling any possiblity to use more complicated techniques or attacks- or to even properly move /anything/.

Alba's mind races to find the best solution. The best, or his only option is....

"Fine, fine! I surrender." He groans out.

It's the most logical thing to do. If Alba keeps struggling with the werewolf on top of him, close to his squishy parts. Who knows what the claws will find next? His current wounds- while dire, at least will likely not cause permanent damage. The tension in his body seems to fade has he doesn't offer any more resistance, energy around his body dispersing. And with the adrenaline gone, his fatigue returns to him twofold. Even if he wanted to- Alba doubts he'd be able to move a muscle.

[KIRA VOLKOV]The prey fell to the ground, crushed flat underneath his superior mass and strength. Fenrir feels a flash of primal instinct wash across his mind, a desire to snap down on the young man's throat, to tear it out with his jaws and revel in the taste of a fresh kill. His claws are buried deep into the flesh of the human's arms, the curved talons burrowed snugly in place like ticks, ready to take large chunks of meat with them when they go should the gangster somehow manage to push him free. Thick globs of foul saliva drip from his open mouth, spattering with fat wet plops onto the youth's chest and neck. The monster's fetid hot breath washes over him, a rancid mixture of rotten meat and dried blood.

Fenrir stops himself from indulging in the kill, his eyes narrowing in disgust and hate as the boy surrenders. His jaws clench shut with a sharp snap, a low burbling snarl like a tea kettle boiling over rumbling up from deep inside of him. He stares down at the prone man, clear desire to do further violence in his baleful glare, hoping that the he will be foolish enough to attempt another sleight of hand.

But no, he has lost and he knows it and has taken the coward's way out when no other option presents itself. Fenrir snorts disdainfully at him, spattering further speckles of something unpleasant across his face.

"Not so cocky now, are you, manling?"

The monstrous wolf's fingers flex, his claws digging just a little further into the meat. He lowers his long muzzle down until it is positioned right next to Alba's ear, his dark yellow eyes narrowed menacingly.

"If it were not for my master's orders, I would take my time tearing you apart. I have spent an entire lifetime learning my trade, boy. And I am very..." He snarls softly, baring his teeth in a grin. "VERY good at what I do. There aren't words in your language for the suffering I would visit upon you and those you hold dear. Keep that in mind, should you chose to provoke my ire yet again."

[ALBA]Complete helplessness. While Alba had been mostly cool-headed up until now, fear started spreading further and further trough him. The possibility that, should he so choose, Fenrir could end his life in a moment. Tear him apart. As the wolf leaned in closer, and the rancid smells filled Alba's nostrils further, the dread made him turn his head away. A sign of weakness.

He tried, he really tried, but he was still decimated in the end. His only saving grace is that- for whatever reason, they wanted him alive. He is luckier then most. He can only hope his comrades haven't all be slaughtered. All the he built up over these last months, would be gone.

But now, he must make sure -he- will survive. And through the urge to gag, he mutters out. "I understand." As he lays limply on the wooden planks.

[KIRA VOLKOV]Ah, the stink of fear. It is a scent with which the old wolf is intimately familiar. Even in the Makai, where monsters roamed openly in the daylight, living things experienced it. The terror of being hunted, of knowing that something lurks in the darkness, ready and able to end ones life, is a universal sensation between man, animal, and monster alike.

Fenrir stares down the young boy in silence for several long seconds, his predator's eyes narrowed and ready for mayhem, before finally pulling away. He gives a slow satisfied nod, his ruffled ego slightly mollified by the human's obvious revulsion and worry.

"Good," he rumbles, a sardonic hint in his voice. The werewolf unclenches his claws, releasing the death grip on the boy's shoulders as he rises to his feet. He idly licks the blood from one hand and takes a step back, motioning for the gangster to stand.

"Continue to show such wisdom and you may even survive the day."

In the calm after the storm, the sounds of the chaos outside the small abandoned shop rush in the fill the voice. Though they aren't nearly as close or as persistant any more, the sound of screams and snarling continue to drift in through the open door and shattered windows. The werewolf's ears perk up, twitching slightly as they hone in on the various sounds, but he otherwise pays the destruction being unleashed upon the town behind him no mind.

Reaching into his heavy leather belt, Fenrir withdraws a small rectangle of black plastic from one of the pouches. He squeezes it slightly and a moment later the front surface springs to life with light, revealing it to be a cell phone. The device looks comically tiny in the beast's hands as he calls up the phone application, dialing in a number with soft electronic bleeps. After a couple of rings, the voice of a woman drifts out of the speaker, soft and monotone.

"Yes?"

"I have accomplished the task," Fenrir growls, making no efforts to hide his annoyance. "It proved more violent than expected."

"He lives?"

"Yes, yes," the wolf grumbles. "And in one piece." His eyes shift to Alba for a moment. "Mostly."

"Hold."

The phone goes silent as whoever is on the other end of the line steps away. The wolf fidgets uneasily in place, his weight shifting from one foot to another as if agitated. Almost a minute later another voice emerges from the phone, still feminine but with a harder edge to it and an accent that is clearly Slavic in origin.

"Fenrir? Is the target with you?"

"Yes, master. I have him here."

"Let me speak with him."

The wolf rumbles at that but extends his hand to Alba, offering him the phone. His eyes narrow slightly as he does so, his voice a low growl.

"I suggest you use some of that respect you've just had beaten into you, boy. Your continued ability to breathe is contingent upon her say so."

COMBATSYS: Fenrir has ended the fight here.

[ALBA]The wolf finally lets Alba go. The claws are released from his body with a squirt of blood, a sharp pain spreading through the wound to accompany it. Alba stares at Fenrir and breathes out a sigh of relief as the werewolf grabs the phone, handling it with surprising delicacy. The sight would be a comedic one, were it not for the gaping wounds all over Alba's body. Fenrir's conversation makes it obvious what is waiting for him. A phone call with the boss.

He strains his wounded red-gloved hand to pluck the phone from the beast's massive claws before slowly bringing it to his ear.

"Moshi moshi"

He greets with a completely dry tone and waits for the voice on the other side to respond as his head rests on the floor.

[KIRA VOLKOV]"Ah. Mr. Meira."

The voice from the phone is disorted somewhat, as always, but its owner's amused tone is easy enough to make out. She speaks with competant Japanese, though her accent makes some of the words sound rather strange to a native.

"It's good that you remain capable of speaking. Fenrir is not the most gentle of envoys, particularly when angry. From the sound of things, I assume you must have taken poorly to the situation unfolding around you."

The speaker trails off allowing the distant sounds of panic to fill the silence for a few seconds, as if to make her point before continuing.

"Unfortunately, while I admire your desire to assist your local community, I cannot allow you to interfere. Not that I suspect you'd be able to stop what I've unleashed upon this city. There are literally hundreds of creatures just like tall dark and brooding fuzzball currently looming over you running wild."

Fenrir lets out a snort at that, chuckling darkly at some sort of private joke.

"But there are far better uses for someone of your talents. And, once I've explained things to you, I think you'll see things that way too."

[ALBA]Alba has to play along

But, these people. These.... scumbags. They speak about the situation so terrifyingly light-hearted. And hundreds? -Hundreds- of creatures like his captor? Southtown doesn't stand a chance.

After the woman on the phone is finished talking, Alba stays silent for a few seconds. He grips the phone tightly in frustration, but keeps a cold tone of voice and facial expression. "So, explain. On the phone or in person?." He chooses to ignore her banter, responding only to her final remark. "Make it quick. I'm bleeding out thanks to your..." He almost taunts Fenrir again, but peers over to the wolf as he heeds his warning."...Enforcer"

In the moments of silence, Alba's human ears occasionally pick up an especially loud cry or scream from outside. Alba ever-so slightly winces with these sounds, not able to help them at all while he pathetically bleeds out on the ground.

[KIRA VOLKOV]The voice on the phone responds to his terse remark with an unrestrained laugh, as if he has made an excellent joke.

"Let's not mince words, Mr. Meira. Fenrir is a monster. He enjoys killing. He enjoys the hunt, the thrill of chasing down helpless prey and then tearing them apart with his bare hands. But, I told him to deliver a message, which requires you to be alive. As much as I'd love to let you wallow in the melodrama of youth, I'm quite certain that you will survive."

Fenrir's lips peel back at that, revealing his teeth in a grin that could unironically be described as wolfish.

"You know me so well, master. It's why I enjoy working for you so much."

Melodious laughter drifts from the speaker yet again. "Of course. We are, after all, all slaves to our nature. But, a discussion we may indulge in when you arrive, should you wish to compare notes on philosophy. You know of the Dragon's Den? It's a casino on the beach front."

The werewolf rumages around in one of his pockets again, this time fishing out a smaller and flatter rectangle of plastic. He tosses it negiligently down at Alba and it lands on his chest, revealing itself to be an identification card of some sort with the gangster's portrait and name printed upon it along with some flowing golden letters that read 'The Dragon's Den'.

"Congratulations. You're now a V.I.P. member."

[ALBA]Alba peels the card of his chest, revealing his own face staring back at him. They really planned this out in detail, huh? " The gangster raises his torso and sits up straight. He sticks the V.I.P card in his wondrously still-intact breast pocket. These two are getting on his nerves. It's like this whole situation is some sick joke to them. "I'll come. Since that beast will just kill me otherwise."

He pushes himself to stand up, but he falls back to one knee as the strain on his bleeding legs prove too great. "..As soon as i can move." He adds, shooting Daggers at Fenrir. Wishing he could wipe that Grin off of that maw.

[KIRA VOLKOV]If anything, the grin only grows wider on the wolf's beastial features as he witnesses the boy's suffering.

"That I will. And who knows? Maybe I'll still get to anyways."

Lifting one his massive paws, Fenrir extends his thumb and forefinger, pointing them at the gangster's head as if they were a loaded gun. He mockingly 'fires' the weapon at him and then turns to leave, padding casually out through the open doorway and into the street.

"Be seeing you, boy."

Once the werewolf has vanished from sight, the voice on the phone chimes in once again dripping with saccharine.

"Excellent. I'll tell the doorman to expect you. Normally my establishment has a rather strict dress code but I won't hold it against you if you don't have a suit and tie. Just try not to bleed all over my rugs, mm? It upsets the clients."

There is a long moment of silence and it seems as if the person on the other end might have hung up. But then she speaks up one final time. The tone in the woman's voice is soft this time but laced with the unmistakable inflection of implied threat.

"Oh and Mr. Meira? Don't keep me waiting. This offer only lasts until the end of the day and when it expires, so do you."

And on that cheerful note, the feed goes dead with a soft click, leaving the gangster alone in the darkness.

[ALBA]And with that, Alba is left in the darkness. The only source of light coming from the now-quiet cell phone before that too, fades away. He stumbles over to the wall, and puts his back against it before slumping over. Recovering his stamina and waiting for the blood to clot while left only with his feverish thoughts. "I am Fucking useless." he mumbles to himself.

"So much for being FATE's leader. I send all of them out there just to die."

He sits. Mentally desperate and fatigued, beating himself up for failing like this. Until finally, he stands up from the wooden floor, and starts limping his way to the literal dragon's Den. Alba looks down at the concrete streets in shame, trying to avoid seeing the corpse-littered destruction the flood of monsters left behind.

Log created on 09:47:14 03/20/2020 by Kira Volkov, and last modified on 10:29:56 03/25/2020.